LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VII, Issue 727, 18 October 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE WIDOW’S RUSE, (Banbury News.) Chapter I. ‘ I say, Ralph, when do you mean to marry 1 It’s time you were beginning to think seriously about the matter.' Ralph Denvil shrugged his shoulders. He was a tall, rather thin, gentlemanly-looking man of about three-and-forty, with hair already slightly grizzed. He was by_ no means bad-looking—nay, his face might have been termed handsome but for a stern, repellant expression that it wore. The features were good and regular, but there was a certain cold hard look in the darkgray eyes, there were certain crow’s-feet about their corners, certain harsn lines about the thin-lipped mouth, which detracted considerably from his claims to beauty. The most inexperienced eye, the most casual glance, would have at once perceived that ho was proud and haughty, unsympathetic and cold. A more experienced physiognomist would have said that he was ambitious and fond of power, reserved and self-contained, and, withal, sensitive with that morbidly delicate sensitiveness so often found in proud and reserved natures. Why he had never married was a subject which his acquaintances has frequently discussed. The worthy men whose whole system revolved round a wife and family could not understand Ralph DenviTs preference for the cheerless loneliness of a bachelor’s life. Why, they wearied themselves with asking, did he not marry ? It was not for want of means, for he was a wealthy man. His dingy offices in Gray’s Inn witnessed the transaction of a vast amount of costly law-work ; mysterious parchments dealing with thousand and hundreds of thousands of pounds were therein prepared. His mansion in Bloomsbury was furnished in most sumptuous and

luxurious style—aud yet he was content to leave it under the superintendence of an old housekeeper. It could not be for want of opportunities. Many a blooming maiden would have jumped at so eligible a match, many a harassed father of a too exuberant family would have given him the pick of his dauthers and his blessing with readiness, many a mother of marriageable girls would have gloried in him for a son-in-law. Yet he still remained, at fortythree years of age, in single blessedness. W hy was this ? Ralph Denvil had risen to his present affluence from a much lower station. He was the son of a Dissenting minister whose numerous family was so out of proportion to his narrow means that, when once he had given them a start in life, he could do nothing more for them. He could only launch them upon the world and leave them to fight their way for themselves. Ralph had been articled to a solicitor in London, and given clearly to understand that, when his time was up, he must thenceforth shift for himself —he was to make his after-course for himself, for his father could do no more for him. Fortunately for him he was exactly the sort of character upon which such a consideration acts as a stimulus. He had energy, application, and ambition. He was determined to become rich. He saw every day evidences of the power of gold, the influence it could secure, the gratification it could purchase-he bitterly felt its want, and resolved, while yet a mere boy, to make wealth —the acquisition of an easy if not affluent position—the aim of his life, the object on which all his energies and diligence should be concentrated. This aim from the first he kept constantly in view. During the whole period of his pupilage to the law he lived in the most abstemious manner, denied himself all the gay pleasures in which youths of his age, in a place like London, usually indulge, and gave himself up fully to the study of his profession—a course of life that was easy to him owing to the cold, unimpulsive disposition he inhereted from his father, and the austere and puritanical manner in which he had been brought up. He never acted on impulse—he never took a step without consideration—he never acted imprudently ; and thus the foundation of his fortune was laid. His habits of steady, plodding industry, of stern self-denial and of rigid economy, had accompanied him in every step, and ever pushed him, slowly but surely, higher and yet higher, until in his fortieth year he found himself possessed of one of the most lucrative legal connections in the metropolis. Thus it was that Ralph Denvil had never married. He had been too busy. His attention had been too fully occupied with the one great aim of his life—that of amassing wealth—to allow any time for romance and sentiment. He did not indeed forswear marriage; he had by no means any particular affection for the isolation of bachelorship. He had always intended to marry at some time, but as yet he had ever put it off. He had resolved that when he married he would marry well—that this step, like every other step he had taken in life, should forward his great life-aim. And thus, whenever the marriage question had presented itself to his thoughts, he had always put it off till a little later, when he should be in a position to look for a better match ; and ever as the time slipped by, and he found his prosperity increasing, he had still postponed the matter to some yet more favourable time in the future. And thus the years had passed unheeded, had drawn stern, harsh lines upon his face, had grizzled his hair, and had hardened his heait, till at forty-three he was still unmarried.

Yet one memory there was he could not so easily cast aside—one tender spot there was even in his callous and worldly heart. As a boy he had loved, truly loved, loved with all the strength of passion of which he was capable. But the object of his love was poor and he was ambitious. His prudence had conquered his passion, and he had sacrificed his love for his desire for wealth. But the memory of gentle Edith Grey still clave to him, and even now, hard and worldly, cold and cynical, as he had grown, had power to soften his heart. If Ralph Denvil had one especial fault, it was excess of self reliance. Thrown upon his own resources from early youth, forced to depend entirely upon himself, he had early learned to trust to his own powers. And these powers were by no means insignificant, for his energy and application were indefatigable, and his talents were of no mean order. Looking back over his past career, reviewing the difficulties he had surmounted and the successes he had achieved, it was no wonder he felt an overweening confidence in those abilities which, unaided, had gained him these results. Not indeed that he was in the slightest degree boastful —not that he was at all given to talk about himself or his affairs ; he was far too proud and reserved for that. But, in those silent communings with himself which with the reserved, self-contained man supplies the place of the vain, windy brag of the impulsive chatterer, he would look back with vast self-gratulation at the tact and acuteness, the undeviating prudence, which had marked every step of bis career; and with an inward chuckle be would say to himself, ‘I may not be an Admirable Crichton, yet I flatter myself I do know a thing or two 1 He must be a clever fellow who catches me napping ! ’ Of all the various members of his father’s family he had almost lost sight, with one exception—that of hia favourite sister, who had married well in London, and whose house was almost the only one at which he visited. This sister was in character a perfect contrast to himself, one of those cheerful, happy-tempered women whose presence is perpetual sunshine, who are never thoroughly at ease unless everyone about them is as happy as themselves. She pitied her brother’s lonely and cheerless life, and though she might be considered as acting against her own interest, and that of her family, she was always counselling him to marry. It was she who asked the question — ‘ I say, Ralph, when do you mean to marry ? ’ Ralph shrugged hia shoulders. ‘ Oh, some of these days, no doubt? There’s no particular hurry.’ ‘ I don’t know about that, though, said his sister. ‘ I can tell you, you are not getting younger. Why, I declare, you are becoming quite gray ? ‘ Pish ! Forty odd is not so old, Harriet. I’ve ten years before me yet if I like. ’ But he spoke sharply, as though the subject were not agreeable.

‘ Ten years indeed ?’ cried his sister. ‘ You will be an old man then, Forty odd

is forty-three, and ten makes fifty-three. If you’re not married before that, you’d better give it up, I fancy. I suppose you don’t wish to drift into confirmed old bachelorhood ?’ ‘ Well, I believe you’re right, Harriet,’ said Ralph, after a pause. ‘ But I must get you to help me. Whom do you advise ?’ _ ‘ Who? Why—oh, there are lots of nice girls who would be glad to have you—who in fact would fairly jump at you if you showed a disposition to be caught!’ ‘ Ah, yes,’ responded the brother with a sneer —‘ penniless girls, who would be very happy to secure such an eligible settlement in life 1 Thank you, I’d rather bo excused. ’ ‘ Nothing of the sort, Ralph. Don’t be so censorious and ill-natured, I know lots of dear, true hearted girls who would be glad to marry you for yourself alone—who are far too sincere aud honourable to give the hand without the heart. There’s Laura Vane now ’ ‘Not a sixpence to bless herself with, save what her uncle allows her !’ interjected the brother, parenthetically. ‘ But she’d be a fortune in herself, for all that!’ returned the sister, warmly. ‘ Or, there’s Caroline Ritson—’ ‘A hundred and fifty a year when her mother dies ! ’ interjected Ralph Denvil again, ‘Ralph,’ exclaimed his sister, in despair, ‘ can’t you estimate a woman by her own worth, without always dragging in her fortune ? What if they are comparatively poor ? They have true, loving hearts ; and surely you have means enough yourself. Those girls would make any husband happy.’ ‘ I don’t in the least doubt it, my dear Harriet,’ responded Ralph, still sneering. * I don’t doubt that they are perfect paragons. But then, you see, a fellow with a professional career to carve out for himself can’t afford to be romantic. He can’t afford to marry a penniless girl, even though she be a perfect paragon. If he has any ambition he must—he absolutely must—marry a fortune, even though the accompanying bride be but so-so.

‘ Stuff and nonsense, Ralph ! How can you talk so ? It’s not as if you were a young man with your way to make before you. I’m sure you’re rich enough in all conscious. I can’t think what you want with your money. I’m certain you’d find a good wife worth more to you than untold gold. ’ ‘Very true, Harriet,’ replied Ralph—‘very admirable remarks, I’m sure, but a trifle behind the age. In the present state of society a man can’t be too rich ; and he who is content with what is exphemistically termed ‘a moderate competence,’ when he has a chance of making more, is generally looked upon as a fool.’ ‘ Well, bless my life, then, if you must marry a fortune, why don’t you secure the rich widow —Mrs Yesey?’ ‘Mrs Yesey?’ He looked up sharply. ‘Mrs Yesey?’ he repeated, slowly and musingly. ‘By Jove, I might do worse ! But I say, Harriet, who is this Mrs Yesey ?’ ‘ Why, I don’t know exactly; but she’s certainly immensely rich. She scatters her money like dust.’ Ralph Denvil shortly took his leave, and returned home more thoughtful than was his wont.

Chapter 11. ‘ Who is this Mrs Vesey ? ’ It was a question which others bad asked besides Ralph Denvil, and none had been able to give a much more delinito reply than that of Ralph Deuvil’s sister—- ‘ 1 don’t know exactly ; but she is certainly immensely rich.’ She had made her appearance in town at the commencement of the season, and had immediately created a considerable sensation by her beauty and her extravagance. She was a plump, petite blonde, blue-eyed and fair-haired, of some thirty years of age, with a face almost childlike in its expression of sweet, guileless innocence. No one would have given her credit for possessing the least force of character. She seemed to be too artless and innocent a creature to be aught but a drawing-room ornament. Her acquaintances of her own sex voted her a fool, while those of the other sex called her a pretty little thing, much in the same tone they would use in speaking of a pet dog. Every one wondered how she managed to preside over the large establishment in Mayfair which she kept up, and where all her entertainments were such invariably and decided successes. She had considerable difficulties to surmount in gaining her first entrance into the circle of society in which she moved. Coming among them utterly unknown and without introduction, and living as she did entirely alone, people had looked on her at first with much distrust and suspicion. She seemed utterly friendless and alone in the fashionable neighborhood in which she had come to reside. Beyond the fact that she was the widow of a Manchester merchant, and very rich, no one knew anything about her ; but somehow she had edged herself into society, and rapidly gained a good footing. Her first step had been to call upon the member for Manchester, who was then in town, and who had had a slight business acquaintance with her late husband ; and through his means she succeeded in gaining a few introductions, and, once having obtained an entrance, her progress was comparatively easy. Her marvelously winning manners gained her friends on every hand, though not among her own sex—they felt a suspicion of her for which they could not easily account; but among the men she was extremely popular. Childlike as she was, she could understand them far better than most of the women they met with. She could so perfectly adapt herself to their various dispositions, she could so thoroughly interest herself in their topics, she could make little remarks, whose naive shrewdness was so amusing, and at the same time showed such a full appreciation and intelligence of their conversation, that they were universally charmed with her. Wherever she went the men were sure to crowd after her ; and thus, in spite of themselves, the ladies were forced to invite her, as bait for their male acquaintances. But there was a sharp sting concealed beneath the widow’s outward child-like innocence, as all who came unpleasantly in contact with her speedily perceived. In spite of her simple, artless ways, the little woman could utter an apt sarcasm when occasion demanded—a sarcasm all the more biting from the sweetly, unconscous manner in Avhich it was uttered. Lady Alicia Barham was the leader of the set into which Mrs Yesey had sseured an entrance.

Lady Alicia had from the first conceived a prejudice against the stranger; nor had she cared to conceal her ill-opinion from its object. ‘ The wife of some low, common person in the provinces, I believe— a Manchester shoddy merchant, or something like that,’ she had said, one day, in no very audible tone, in a room in which Mrs Vesey had been present, and in reply to the oft-repcated inquiry, * Who is she V ‘ Yes, you are quite right, .Lady Barham,’ she returned, with her sweet, winning smile; ‘ the late Mr Vesey was not of high birth, and he was engaged in business. He was a Manchester merchant —something to do with cotton, you know, not shoddy : and merely paid his way honorably, and maintained an unblemished character. He was not at all aristocratic, poor fellow —a common person —what do you called it ?—plebeian, but honest.’ Every one looked up to see how Lady Alicia took the thrust, for no one was ignorant that Sir Arthur Barham had in earlier life betted desperately on the turf, and lost, in a wild attempt to relieve his estates from heavy mortgages; and every one had heard ugly rumors about a bill with a forged name attached thereto with which he had been unpleasantly associated, and which had been hushed up, it was said, only by the sacrifice of a moiety of his wife’s fortune. Beyond an almost imperceptible flush and tightening of the lips, the high-bred lady gave no sign that the shaft had told, ‘So good of you to tell us, Mrs Vesey,’ she acknowledged, languidly. ‘ Thanks very much for the interesting information.’ ‘ \ 7 es,’ continued the little widow, raising her large, mild blue eyes to Lady Alicia’s, ‘ I thought it would be better to mention the matter myself. One’s connections are sometimes so—-you know—have such unpleasant stories hanging about them.’ f To he continued,']